A chore he already completed yesterday upon returning home, this serving as self-imposed penance for his gaffe. A second pass through to make sure everything was perfect before taking off later tonight for the next step in the sequence.
A task promising to be much more difficult than the first, the situation in Gallipolis set up for his success, and still he managed to commit such a foolish blunder.
Working under the watchful gaze of the twins posted alongside the hinged wooden doors pushed open wide, The Promisor held a wadded cloth with one hand. The other, he used to grip the barrel of the Mossberg, keeping the tip pointed toward the exposed rafters above.
An upright position allowing him to strip the thin red cotton rag the length of the weapon. Long strokes along the matte black steel and the synthetic stock. Swipes that left the gun gleaming beneath the overhead lights, the scent of gun oil filling the air.
Flicking his gaze over to the faded Coca-Cola manual clock hanging on the wall above his workbench, The Promisor checked the time. Running the math in his head, he matched the midday hour against the things he still needed to get done in the hours ahead. A litany of chores to be completed, including switching the license plates on his truck a second time and checking over his attire for the night to ensure there were no preexisting snags or tears.
A final weapons check. A last look at the map. Another scan of the posted rules and regulations of the place he would be spending the night.
A refresher on all things pertaining to his next target.
Things he was glad to do to make sure another mistake did not take place.
Two days prior, he had allowed himself to become complacent. In those hours before loading up and heading south to Gallipolis, he had deluded himself into believing all was in order. He had planned for every eventuality. Put in all of the requisite legwork.
Beliefs that had left him vulnerable.
This time, there would be no such thing. Every free moment The Promisor had would be spent in preparation, his mission too important to allow carelessness to interfere.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The exterior of the Gallia County Public Library looked like a single-story version of the 8th Precinct Reed was parked in front of the night before. A building that in another life – or even with just a few small modifications – could easily pass for a small-town schoolhouse.
Employing a rectangular design, the front of the place was nearly one hundred feet in length. Positioned along one of the two side streets running perpendicular to Main Street, it rested nearly twenty feet back off the road. Enough space to allow for a sidewalk, a small patch of front lawn, and a mulch bed interspersed with shrubs and flowers lining the front.
Constructed of the same faded red brick that appeared to be the building material of choice in town, the front was split by a set of double doors. Glass pieces inset into steel frames built to match the windows evenly spread wide to either side. Panes of uniform size and shape, many of them filled with the artwork of young children.
Rainbows and sunshine and other such signs of summer.
Youthful exuberance in the wake of a chilly spring that was especially long in relinquishing its grip this year.
Parked on the curb in front of the building, Reed swept his gaze across it, waiting as the phone in his lap piped a ringtone into the sedan. One wrist draped over the steering wheel, his opposite hand fed Billie treats from the bag on the passenger seat beside him. A quick snack before going inside with the promise of a proper meal in the near future.
“Dude,” a familiar voice said, pulling Reed from his study of the building before them. Arriving just short of the call getting kicked to voicemail, it bore the trademark grogginess that seemed to be apparent at any time earlier than five p.m.
“Deke,” Reed replied in greeting. “Did I wake you?”
“Naw,” Deke said, doing his best to stifle a yawn. “I was awake. Not necessarily up, but awake.”
To know Derek – or, as he insisted within the first fifteen seconds of meeting someone for the first time, Deke – Chamberlain on a surface level was to see the textbook definition of arrested development. A man now in his early-to-mid-thirties whose preferred manner of dress was wool socks and baggy gym shorts and whose wild thatch of blonde hair seemed to grow more unruly with each passing year.
A guy that was born and raised in the heart of the Midwest, but insisted on speaking in a manner that bordered on surfer slang. Still lived in the basement of his grandmother’s home in the suburb of Hilliard.
Window dressing that Reed himself had fallen victim to for a long time, misconstruing the surface for the fact that it was all a veneer for a tech savant. One of the country’s pre-eminent cyber defense experts, capable of doing things that most people could only comprehend within the framework of science fiction cinema.
Someone that Reed had forged an unlikely friendship with in the last couple of years, partnering with him on multiple cases. A utilization of skills making him invaluable to what Reed did, his inclusion being a bedrock demand once it became apparent there was no way Reed could wriggle past working for Governor Cowan.
“What’s up?” Deke asked.
“Sitting in Gallipolis,” Reed replied.
Leaving it there a moment, he waited for Deke to put things together.
“I take it the governor finally came calling?”
“That he did,” Reed replied.
“That why you’re now calling me?”
“That I am.”
“Timeframe?” Deke asked.
Glancing to the corner of his cellphone screen, Reed saw that it was already moving on into the afternoon. With impending interviews lined up for the next couple of hours, his plan was to stay in town this evening. See if Meigs was able to find anything on the cameras, check in with Chief Scott and determine if they noticed anything, maybe even take one more run at Harrison depending on what Deke was able to unearth, before heading north to visit with Aquino again in the morning.
A plan that wasn’t guaranteed to produce much – quite the opposite, in fact – but ensured that he tried every possible avenue while in town. Worked every angle present rather than merely leaning into the glaring presence of Aquino.
“Tonight?” Reed asked. “Morning, even?”
“Oh, so not pressing,” Deke said. Chuckling softly, he added, “Next time, lead with that.”
The comment enough to pull a faint smile to Reed’s features as well, he replied, “Will do.”
“Appreciated. So, what’s up?”
Of the various things Harrison had alluded to in their recent conversation, there was one thing that continued to gnaw at Reed’s mind. An offhand comment that was made and moved past in short order, Reed not wanting to interrupt the flow of someone that could easily shut down at any moment.
Something he had every intention of circling back to, but never got the chance.
“Would it be possible to look into the record of a former junior prosecutor from Westerville by the name of Harrison Salem?” Reed asked.
“Sure,” Deke replied. No hesitation whatsoever. “What am I looking for?”
“Yesterday morning, the man’s wife was shot on the front sidewalk of their house. Ugly. Looked like a damned assassination.”
Over the line, he heard a sharp intake of breath, the sound bringing a mental image to mind of his friend wincing.
Part of the very specific reason why his involvement in cases was contained entirely to the basement lair he worked out of.
“And you think someone with a grudge is going after him?” Deke asked.
“I don’t know,” Reed admitted, “but it’s worth looking into. See if maybe somebody he put away just got released or had a case overturned on appeal or something.”
“Will do,” Deke replied. “Can you text me the guy’s name and city again when you get a chance?”
“For sure,” Reed replied. “Appreciate it.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
&
nbsp; The two women Reed spoke with at the public library and at The Yoga Studio of Gallipolis were as different from one another as possible. Ladies separated by several decades in terms of age, every discernible physical characteristic between the two of them decidedly at odds.
So much so, the only things they seemed to have in common were an affinity for Billie and that they were distraught over Cara.
Starting at the library, Reed and Billie met with a woman name Marjorie Hayley. The director of the facility, she looked to be north of sixty years, all the classic librarian tells on plain display. Silver hair pulled back tight, glasses hanging from a chain around her neck, a cardigan sweater enveloping her shoulders despite it being far from chilly inside the building.
The person that had noticed Cara not arriving on time for her volunteer shift, she was the one that had called Harrison and put things into motion. An extremely tangential contact that Reed assured her many times over was the correct course of action, she still carried a great deal of personal guilt over being involved even that tiny bit.
Twice breaking down over the course of their twenty-minute conversation, in the few gaps in between, she had espoused nothing but praise for Cara. A continuation of the general consensus in the town, every last person that had come in contact with her speaking of her in glowing terms.
To the point that Reed was convinced it went beyond just speaking kindly of the departed. A testament to her character that was noticed and appreciated by all she encountered.
A trait, he had noticed, often shared by people in her position. Those that found themselves adjacent to somebody like her brother, their own behavior almost a conscious departure.
A pointed decision to exude kindness, hoping to offset whatever evil others in their life may inflict upon the world.
Leaving Ms. Hayley with enough time to collect herself before the afternoon rush of schoolchildren arrived, they then made the short drive over to the other avenue abutting Main Street. A two-minute trek that put them in front of a building that shared space between a laundry mat and the Yoga Studio of Gallipolis.
An odd pairing that Reed would have never put together, the front lined with windows giving a full visual to the interiors of both.
Spaces markedly at odds with one another, to say nothing of the crowds they attracted.
Stepping inside during a brief break between afternoon classes, Reed spoke to a woman that was several years younger than himself named Kylee. Adorned in standard yoga attire, she wore nothing that wasn’t spandex, her feet and abdomen both bare. Dark hair pulled up into a ponytail that gave a clear view of her face, it was obvious that she had spent a good chunk of the last day crying.
Not to the extent of Harrison, but a fair amount for sure.
Following her to the small office carved out at the rear of the studio, Kylee had been eager to help in any way she could. Quite possibly the last person to see or speak to Cara, the two had had a brief conversation after class about how well Cara was progressing. A complete novice when she first started coming in, she had apparently dedicated herself to the craft, a regular six mornings a week.
The kind of person that was always on time and even occasionally brought in treats for the others in the room.
Much like Ms. Hayley before her, Kylee hadn’t noticed a thing out of place. Nobody was lurking outside after she walked Cara to the door and watched her climb into her SUV. No new faces had been walking past the front windows in the last couple of weeks.
If Cara was worried about anything, she gave absolutely no indication.
A quarter hour after stepping inside, Reed and Billie left her to begin a new class. A task he did not envy her undertaking as she verged on breaking down, assuring her they could see themselves out as she attempted to pull herself together.
Armed with no new information and a clock that he was becoming increasingly aware of, Reed exited onto the street. Not yet ready to climb into the confines of the sedan and with no particular next destination in mind, he stood on the sidewalk with Billie by his side. Hands resting on his hips, he scanned the collection of buildings nearby, hoping that something would jump out at him.
Thirty hours, he had been on the case. Time that started with them scouring the site of Cara’s murder and the surrounding hillsides, the effort rewarding them with the spot the shooter fired from and where they parked their escape vehicle.
A decent enough haul of information that had dried up since, the most he had to show for the last day being the woman’s older brother and a collection of stories from townsfolk extolling how they could not even imagine anybody wanting to harm Cara, much less offer any idea who might have done so.
A string of interactions that was starting to wear on Reed, his exasperation rising.
If Alex Aquino was where this ended up going, that was fine. It wouldn’t be the first time the most obvious explanation turned to be correct, especially when such a person was involved.
For a variety of reasons though, Reed wasn’t quite ready to dismiss all other possibilities just yet, unable to shake the feeling that to put the onus squarely on Aquino didn’t quite fit.
As the man himself pointed out just this morning, he was more than three years removed. A man becoming less relevant by the day. Adding to it were the town’s location and the manner in which Cara was murdered, neither seeming like the sort of thing that would be used as part of a power play.
In Reed’s experience, if someone wanted to make a statement or move in on an existing territory, they didn’t go out of their way to do it quietly. Damned sure didn’t climb up in the foothills and shoot someone when they knew they would be alone.
More likely would have been a spectacle. A drive by as Cara and Kylee stood talking outside the door of the yoga studio. A targeted hit as Cara left the library.
Snatching her as she got out of her car at home, nobody around for miles to intervene, and then using torture or coercion or whatever else to make a point.
Not this.
Even if his time in Gallipolis had yet to produce any sort of viable alternative theory.
Shoving out an audible sigh through his nose, Reed continued his sweep of the street before him. A complete arc taking in the random assortment of establishments lining the narrow thoroughfare, his pass almost complete when his gaze landed on a sign a few doors down.
A simple affair in a marquee style with individual black letters slid into tracts affixed to a pale-yellow background. The kind of thing usually found in old photos or movie theaters announcing that It’s A Wonderful Life or Viva Las Vegas! would be playing at seven tonight.
A feature that normally would have never registered with Reed if not for the information on display.
Jim Bob’s Sporting Goods, serving all your hunting and fishing needs since 1981.
Letting his gaze rest on the marquee for a moment, Reed considered what it said. The service it was advertising and the length of time it had been doing so.
A subject matter on point with what he was investigating stretching well beyond a period of time he was concerned with.
“Billie,” Reed said aloud, the sound of his voice drawing her attention up beside him, “what say we go introduce ourselves to Jim Bob?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The last sporting goods store Reed set foot in was a Bass Pro Shop in Oklahoma City. Per his father’s proclivity for always arriving well ahead of schedule, they had found themselves in town with hours to kill before Reed and Billie were set to fly back to Ohio, turning to one of their standbys to help pass the time.
Something that was quite easy to do in a multi-story megalith dedicated to all things outdoors.
A gleaming edifice that had gobbled up the time and a decent chunk of money before the Mattox family eventually made it back to the car.
Passing under the marquee and through the front door of Jim Bob’s Sporting Goods, Reed couldn’t help but recall the visit a few weeks prior. Vivid recollections called to mind not by so
me striking similarity, but by the complete contrast there to greet him.
A shop that Reed believed without question first opened its doors in 1981, the only upgrades performed since were in the merchandise lining the shelves. Top-flight gear ranging from fishing rods to a rack of shotguns along the back wall, all contained in a building that fell somewhere between dusty and homey.
A place that pedaled not just in outfitting people for recreation, but in the nostalgia that came with it.
Exactly what Reed was hoping for when he first spotted the sign down the street.
“Afternoon,” a man standing behind the front counter said in greeting.
The sound of his voice pulling Reed’s attention to the side, he threaded his way past a pair of racks containing the requisite junk food staples. Candy bars and beef jerky and miniature cans of Pringles. Items that people could grab to throw in a tackle box or a backpack to snack on while enjoying nature.
Things containing fat and protein and calories, reminding Reed that he had yet to eat since leaving his farmhouse early this morning.
“Afternoon,” Reed said. Reaching to his back pocket, he fished out his badge and held it up for the man to see. “Detective Reed Mattox, my partner Billie.”
Leaning forward with both fists resting atop a glass display case lined with knives, the man tilted his chin upward. “Ah, so you’re the ones.”
Not surprised in the slightest that word of their presence had already gotten around town, Reed let it go, tucking away his badge. “That’s us. You Jim Bob?”
“That’s me,” the man said, parroting a version of Reed’s words back to him. Shifting his weight, he pulled his hands up from the case, extending his right across the glass surface. “James Roberts. Owner, operator, janitor, handyman, and here lately, cashier. What can I do for you?”
The Promisor: A Suspense Thriller Page 12
